


The Long Wait

by nekotachis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Omorashi, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Wetting, degredation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24397483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekotachis/pseuds/nekotachis
Summary: "He crossed his long legs under the table, sitting upright as he fiddled with the edges of his fraying leather notebook. He really needed a break. All this droning, the quick lunch break, the uncomfortable oak chairs - he needed to stretch his legs, take a piss, and have a snack. "Sylvain makes a mistake, and lets himself go on the King.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 106





	The Long Wait

This meeting was taking forever. Sylvain wasn’t even sure what it was about anymore - some time between “Fraldarius ports” and “current economic growth” he clocked out mentally. There was a brief lunch break, but that had been hours ago at this point, and the sun was starting to cast slanting shadows across the meeting room. He watched the dust float in the beams of light as he fidgeted, twinkling like glitter across the animated faces of his friends and countrymen. This place was so old, so ancient - the wallpaper faded from years of sun exposure, the velvet on the seats threadbare in some places. He never could figure out if they didn’t keep up appearances because of money or tradition, but the entire castle could use a makeover. Even the huge dark oak table was worn from time, the surface smooth with the occasional knife mark. 

His Majesty had been casting sideways glances at him as he stared around the room, and Sylvain ignored them; people’s expectations of him were low enough. He did his job, and he did it well, and he was here now more out of obligation than any sort of need. 

He crossed his long legs under the table, sitting upright as he fiddled with the edges of his fraying leather notebook. He really needed a break. All this droning, the quick lunch break, the uncomfortable oak chairs - he needed to stretch his legs, take a piss, and have a snack. A little nap sounded good, too, before he sauntered off to terrorize his friends for the evening.

Everyone else looked cooly interested, and Sylvain couldn’t believe that everyone here was as comfortable as they looked right now. It would be rude to interrupt the King, but surely everyone else was sitting here tired and cranky, right? Sylvain scanned the room - bored faces looked past him, focused on something Felix was animatedly explaining. Did nobody have to even pee? How could any stay focused this long?

Sylvain tried to catch a dust mote, earning a rude glace and a kick from Ingrid. 

He rolled his eyes. The sun was right on him now, and he imagined he must look absolutely stunning. He tossed his head around a bit, watching glowing red curls flop in the sunlight. Yes, truly stunning.

Ok, he had reached the height of his boredom now if he was pretending to be some sort of model. Some old man was making sounds now, human speak that meant nothing to Sylvain, some garbage about income disparity in some unknown territory. And, by goddess, he had to pee, and if someone wasn’t going to stop talking soon, he was going to pee on them.

He shifted again, leaning from one side to another. Between the hard back of the chair and his extremely full bladder, his back was really starting to hurt. He kept his legs crossed, fidgeting his feet to try to distract himself. If he squeezed his thighs together, he could maybe relieve a bit of the pressure. Even sighing seemed to hurt, his stomach expanding with his breath and pressing down. If he just could wait a bit more, he coached himself, then he’ll be free to go and do whatever he needed to do…

The sound of chairs scraping woke him up from his meditations. It was dusk out now - when did it get so dark so fast? The low murmur of people chatting bounced off the high ceilings. Sylvain straightened his posture, stretching his shoulders by pressing down on the arms of the chair. 

“Margrave Gautier.”

His Majesty must have teleported next to him, Sylvain could _not_ understand how he got behind him so fast. He sat up quicker, fixing his posture at the detriment to his aching bladder. He knew he should stand, but he wasn’t sure his poor abdomen could take it right now, so he remained seated, legs crossed, looking up. He hoped nobody noticed the transgression, hoped his friend would be lenient on him today.

He nodded with a short smile, “Your Majesty.”

“Please stay a moment, I have something to talk to you about once everyone leaves.” 

_Fuck_. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Dimitri had gone back to saying goodbye to people filing out of the room, so he couldn’t even tell him he would have to talk later. Ingrid stiffly walked by, shooting him a questionable glance before walking out, all smiles.

Sylvain leaned forward, hunched over the table, his head resting on his hands. This sucked. Somehow just waiting made his urge to urinate even worse, the feeling stronger, like he was going to be sitting here for eternity waiting to be let go. Tapping his foot as a distraction wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. 

“Margarve Gautier”

Startled, he sat upright again. How could someone so _big_ just sneak up on him like that? He’d have to ask later. He plastered on his most charming smile and turned. 

The look on His Majesty’s face was familiar - a mix of concern and disappointment. Sylvain didn’t have the time nor the desire to listen to him get lambasted today, he was going to pee on himself if _somebody_ didn’t get out of his way.

 _Big stupid smile_ , he reminded himself, _and you’ll be free_.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”  
“Margrave Gautier, you should be standing when I’m speaking to you.”

Sylvain giggled, embarrassed. Of course he knew he should be standing. He grew up learning all the stupid rules required at court. 

He sighed (ouch, that hurt his bladder), bit his lip, and looked at his King as sweetly as possible  
“I...can’t. I mean, I can, just not right now.”

Dimitri seemed unimpressed, one eyebrow raised in judgement.

“You...cannot.”  
“I can’t.”  
“So you planned to sit here for the rest of the evening?”  
“Yep.” He didn’t think this through, sweat beading down the back of his neck. This conversation was inane, his patience running thin.

“Margrave Gautier, you seem awfully distracted today. Perhaps your sudden _inability to move_ is related?”

Dimitri’s hand was on his face suddenly, burning hot against his clammy skin. The grip was firm and intentional, and it sent sparks of fear up his spine. There was nothing safe about being cradled by the hands of a man who could snap your head clean off. 

“You know you can tell me anything, _Sylvain._ ” His name was a whisper, soft and dangerous. Oh, how he loved the sound of it, but feared the intentions. They were alone, no need for titles, and the bump bump of his heart in his throat was agony on his bursting bladder. 

He slouched down in his chair, Dimitri’s grip on his face a constant, bumping the back of his head on the high wooden back. Mistakenly, he spread his legs, long and langurious, Dimitri standing between them.

“Anything…”  
“ _Anything_ , my friend.”

Sylvain was going to burst, he was going to scream and pee and also maybe his heart was going to explode. Not necessarily in that order.

“Well, the meeting was so long and…”  
“And? Someone like you, suddenly so apprehensive to speak, seems awfully strange. Are you sure you are feeling well?” The King’s hand threaded through his hair, and it felt like ownership, like claiming. Sylvain loved it and was terrified of it at the same time. 

“And...you told me to stay...and-”

He felt something hard press between the junction at his legs. Dimitri was leaning over him now, pulling him by his hair to reposition his face. From this angle, all he could see was Dimitri - his curious scowl, the way his hair fell in a cascade looking down at him, his lone blue eye, questioning with a hint on cruelty. Dimitri shifted, and so did the object against his crotch, pressing against his soft dick, pushing his balls up into his body. His bladder screamed, and his breaths were in shallow staccato. That was His Majesty’s _knee_ against his dick, and if he didn’t move he was going to fucking _piss on the King._

“Y-your Majesty!” His calm demeanor cracked, split in two with fear. Dimitri dug in harder - he wasn’t going to last. He was so full, it had been all day. He felt like a wineskin, overfermented, bubbling, ready to pop. 

Afraid, he gripped the arms of the chair harder. A cold bead of sweat travelled down the divot in his back, as if mocking him for his current predicament.

“What is it, Sylvain? I thought you liked it when I _indulged_ you.” The King’s voice was sweet, like fake maple syrup. He wasn’t inherently wrong; Sylvain loved their secret trysts, their kisses in hidden concaves, the games they played on the march. Right now, though, Sylvain was more like a cornered animal than a coddled pet, and he couldn’t decide if he was OK with it or not.

“I-it’s not that, Your Majesty, just that-,” Goddess, his knee was so firm pressing into his abdomen. It hurt in a visceral way now, and he was going to burst, and he knew Dimitri wasn’t going to stop.

“S-stop, stop, please, Your Majesty, I can’t -” he pleaded, pathetically frantic.

“What more could you possibly regret in your life, Sylvain.”

Dimitri was looking at him with such intensity now, pupil blown with arousal, and Sylvain _knew_ that Dimitri knew what was going to happen. Everything about him goaded him - his knee, how he bit his lower lip in concentration, the fist in his hair. Sylvain stared at him, really stared, as he choked on panicked breaths. His world was shrinking in his anxiety, his body reduced to base feelings - the pain on his head, the pain in his belly, the shaking of his balled fists. They both knew what was going to happen, and Sylvain had no way to control it.

Dimitri’s knee shifted, pressing more on his pelvis than his cock, and Sylvain couldn’t bear it anymore. Closing his eyes, he surrendered.

The pressure relief was instantaneous, his bladder spasming as he finally let go. He felt the wetness soak his underwear, seep through his pants, oversaturate and dribble down his leg. He could _hear it_ \- oh, the humility of it all - as it dribbled down and drip-dripped onto the floor.

Perhaps in this moment he finally had died - Dimitri’s unwavering gaze on his face, red hot with shame, his breath stalling in his chest. Only his heart continued to beat in it’s cage, like a frantic bird trying to escape, the only thing reminding him that he was, unfortunately, still on this mortal coil.

He swallowed, ignoring the smell of piss that was starting to permeate. He was 25 years old and he pissed his pants. _He pissed on the King of Faerghus_. Nothing in his entire life would have ever prepared him for the absolute shame of this moment. He felt like a specimen, trembling under a microscope. 

“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s voice was firm, kingly. He whimpered, high in his throat, his eyes shut. Oh, his face was on fire, flushed down to his chest.

“ _Sylvain_ , look at me.” 

He swallowed audibly, before slowly opening his eyes. The room seemed darker now, sconces along the wall casting an ominous glow across Dimitri’s features. Was he crying? When did he start crying? He felt so small, like a child again, unable to control himself. Dimitri’s hand was on his throat, pulling his neck and fixing his posture so he was forced to look upwards. He was boneless in the chair, and like a poorly stuffed and overloved doll. 

“Oh, my sweet thing…” His voice was too soft, too patronizing. Sylvain gulped before more fresh tears spilled over. A soft kiss graced his cheek, catching a tear before pulling away. _Humiliating_.

“Were you trying to tell me that you had to go? Poor thing.” the tone was still saccharine, like the cotton candy Sylvain had as a kid at festivals, melting in his mouth from his breath alone and leaving a film on his lips. It only enhanced the shame Sylvain was feeling, leaving him trembling and hiccupping beneath his King’s grip. 

“It’s not your fault, my love.” Another chaste kiss on the opposite cheek, and under normal circumstances Sylvain would have been melting under his touch.

“I know you are a very good friend, wouldn’t you like to make it up to me?” 

Sylvain knew he was attempting to nod, but he couldn’t feel his body anymore. Is this what it was like to finally die? To feel nothing but your heartbeat until that, too, disappeared? 

“Give me your hand.” Distantly, he felt Dimitri grab his hand, gently stretching his fingers out one by one. They tingled at the tips like lighting magic building up, and he faintly felt Dimitri try to massage the stiffness out. The feeling traveled up his arm, tickling his elbow and electrocuting his shoulder. 

At no point did he lose eye contact, at no point did he look away. 

He felt himself being moved, but his body felt like lead. His palm was on the soft linen of Dimitri’s pants - was his hand on his thigh? He tried to curl his fingers around the fabric but couldn’t seem to grasp it before Dimitri moved him again, this time against something hot and firm and - 

Sylvain kicked his feet out, trying to regain any feeling, anything, something. Dimitri was _aroused_ by this. His length was hard, and when he dug his fingers in he felt it throb. 

Abruptly he was let go, left to slouch down in the soggy chair cushion. His tears had dried to salty tracks on his face, the skin stretched tight, and his nose was clogged from crying.

“Be a good boy and take it out.” Barely a whisper, but a command Sylvain would never miss.

His hands felt like wood as he fumbled with the ties on His Majesty’s pants, tight against his straining erection. Dimitri’s hand rested on the crown of his head, like a beloved pet dog, and Sylvain tried his best not to fall in love with it. He was desperate at this point - desperate to make it up to him, desperate to be told everything was ok, desperate to get the hell out of here. If the King wanted his cock played with, well, he could do it and do it well. 

The laces broke free, and Dimitri’s cock sprang out of its confines. Nobody was really ever prepared to deal with the King’s massive cock, let alone when it was erect and dripping in his face. It stood straight and proud, flushed the color of Dimitri’s cheeks after sparring. The head was partially covered by his foreskin, and Sylvain so desperately wanted to run his fingers over it, pull it back and take the cute red crown into his mouth. 

Instead, Sylvain stared down at it, like a barrel of a gun, distantly aware that his pants were soaking wet and he was kneeling in a puddle of his own piss. It was so close to his lips he could feel the heat radiating, smell the musk and soap and whatever was essentially _Dimitri._

He waited for his command, his release, like a hunting hound.

“If you’re loyal to me, you’ll put your mouth on me.” Sylvain surged forward, held back by the grip on his hair.

“Slow. And I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”

His mouth was watering, and he felt like a horse chomping at the bit. 

With intent, he opened his mouth, making a show of running his lips along the head. A bead of precum dripped out and he caught it with his lower lip, tongue darting out to collect it. He chased a prominent vein along the bottom with his lips alone, admiring how soft and velvety Dimitri’s cock felt despite being so hard. Placing gentle kisses along the base, he leaned forward to rub his nose in the coarse blonde hair. Dimitri sighed, Sylvain glowed. 

“Very good…” 

Sylvain’s tongue darted out, kitten-licking at the slit before making a swooping motion downwards to the base before kissing his way back up. Eagerly he waited for a response, anything, but there was just silence above and the own sound of his labored breaths.

“Your Majesty…” Softly, Sylvain pleaded, “May I touch you?”

The laugh Dimitri responded with was condescending and worn. “Margave Gautier, I thought you were the most talented slut in the Kingdom?”

It was impossible to deny such an accusation, and Sylvain whined. He just wanted to get his hands around it, feel the solidity of it, know that something right now was real and not made up.

“You may not touch it. Now, be a sweet thing and get back to work.”

Scowling, Sylvain wrapped his mouth fully around the head now, tongue sneaking under his foreskin before giving a hard suck. It felt so good to be filled, to be used.

“That’s right, you’re doing so well. All by yourself.”

Excited by the prospect of more praise, he dipped lower, flattening his tongue and sucking on his way down. Dimitri softly moaned, and Sylvain took it as a win. As he ascended back, two hands settled on the back of his head. He knew what this meant, this wasn’t his first time.

“I know you can go deeper for your King, is that right?” His response was a keening whine, desperate and sad. Of course he could go deeper - he would do anything you asked of him. 

The gentle pressure on the back of his head guided him forward, too slow and gentle for the hostility that Dimitri cultivated. Sylvain swallowed, trying not to choke the deeper he went. Each inch earned another level of praise - _Good boy, perfect, taking it so well _. Sylvain could hear himself whimpering, a disgraceful sound,like a scared and desperate man on the battlefield. He couldn’t take it, the humiliation, the praise, the combination of them both poking and prodding at this primal part of him where he truly believed he lived only to serve.__

__“Of course you could take the whole thing without even choking.” Dimitri was engulfed now, Sylvain’s lips stretched wide around the base of his cock, and he bet if he reached down he could even _feel_ himself deep inside Sylvain’s throat. The tears started again, retracing dried tracks across his weary face. _ _

__“You love this, don’t you? Love being full, love being used.” Sylvain tried to nod but his mouth was full of cock, and Dimitri was starting to pick with shallow thrusts that hit the back of his throat. The grip on the back of his head tightened, and Sylvain opened his eyes to look up._ _

__What a sight, the King flushed red from arousal, clearly holding himself back, not out of care but out of pure selfish enjoyment. His hair hung down, still as soft and unbothered as this morning, and his lips were parted ever so slightly. His breaths were heavy with emotion, his chest rising and falling with the effort._ _

__Dimitri’s hips sped up, and so did his chatter. Sylvain slurped every word down like cold water.  
“First you come into my court,” a particularly hard thrust, “then, you _urinate_ on me like a dog,” Sylvain tried to sob, muffled, “now, you suck my cock like a cheap _whore_ and you’re so. Exceptionally. Good at it.” _ _

__Sylvain was frantic with his whimpers and whines, his face thoroughly fucked by the King’s massive cock. If he had to sit here forever and be used, he would be fine with it, OK with it, _deserving_ of it. Nothing in his world right now mattered except Dimitri using him like the worthless slut he was. He felt Dimitri’s cock get harder, his thrusts get faster, and he knew he was absolutely ready to take whatever the King was going to blow down his throat._ _

__“Be a good boy and don’t let a single drop out…” Dimitri grit his teeth, groaning, before shooting his load down Sylvain’s welcoming throat with a growl. Sylvain whined, hands clenching on his nasty wet pants, as he swallowed dutifully, a single dribble spilling out._ _

__Abruptly he was pulled off, coughing and sputtering, landing hard backwards onto the wet spot on the carpet. He was aware he was hard and disgusted with himself, the wet fabric of his pants rubbing harshly against his erection. Wiping the dribble of cum away with his sleeve, he spat, hard. Dimitri’s load was more than he was used to, the bitter taste of cum nauseating him. He even swore he got some up his nose._ _

__“You’re disgusting, Sylvain.” Dimitri toed his crotch with his boot, and Sylvain jumped, unprepared._ _

__“I kept you back to tell you there is a meeting tomorrow in the Rose Room at 3pm. I expect you to be presentable. And, please, Margave Gautier, go to the bathroom _before_ the meeting.”_ _

__The soft sounds of boots on carpet disappeared, and it felt like the room had lost 50% of its mass, silent and empty like a mausoleum. Sylvain felt like perhaps he had been there on that floor, sitting in his own piss, for an eternity. Entombed in this dusty old conference room, the perfect example for future Margraves. Here sits Sylvain Jose Gautier, humiliating son of House Gautier._ _

__He could almost swear, under the deafening sound of muffled silence, the endless thudding of his stupid, worthless heart, that he liked whatever just happened between him and the King._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :) 
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nekotachis)


End file.
